Witness Tree
by Greekhoop
Summary: Sequel to "For War is Kind". It's been a decade since Sagara and Aoshi parted ways. How much has changed in that time? How much never changes at all?
1. Prologue

**Witness Tree ~ Prologue**

Disclaimer: I didn't own Sagara and Aoshi then, and I don't own them now.

Rating: PG-13.

Notes: A huge heartfelt thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed For War is Kind. This is the sequel to that. If you haven't read it, I strongly suggest you do. Stuff happened in that story that was important. But if you're not feeling up to it, I did my best to summarize it here in the prologue.

This picks up nine years after the last fic ended. For those of you keeping score at home, that's shortly after the beginning of the series. Where did Aoshi go after he was wounded during the fall of the Oniwaban?

* * *

Outside of Tokyo, night fell in slow, determined black brushstrokes. Blood reds and overripe yellows fanned from the western horizon, and in the east the sky faded to the color of a plum. On a moonless night, the starless blackness could swim up on you, and wherever you were when it happened, you wouldn't be going far until dawn.

It was quiet out here, and a little lonely sometimes. Sagara couldn't have been happier with the arrangement. On a cloudless night, when the sky went on forever, he wondered if a more complex man would be able to survive in such close proximity with eternity. But he didn't mind knowing that he was insignificant. It would be nine years that winter since a single night had made him realize how bereft of meaning his life truly was, how inglorious his death - when the time for it came - would seem to the rest of the world.

And so it was on this small plot of farmland, half a day's walk from the new capital, that Sagara found himself. He kept a garden, and there was a small _nashi_ grove behind the house. As long as he looked after them, they produced enough to live on. He had a little money saved. It was enough to get by, and that was all that was important.

Sagara knelt at the edge of the garden, tying up the sleeves of his dark shirt to keep them clean. Some of the _daikon_ had been showing promise lately, and he had always liked the bitter, earthy taste. With one hand, he brushed the fallen leaves out of the way and began his work.

Every year around the beginning of the spring, he would remember how, many years back, he had sworn he would never return here. His life since that point had been a series of concentric circles, a whirlpool pulling him back, inevitably, to this place.

This land had belonged to his father, and to his brother. Though they were gone, it still held their memories like restless spirits. His blood had been spilled here, but not as much as had been spilled in places far away. Cut hands and scraped knees were minor hurts compared to what Sagara had found past the edge of this field.

Life was simpler now, and painless except for the old ache that sometimes flared in his left shoulder on chilly mornings. But even that was bearable because he had long ago stopped associating it with the pale scar a bullet had etched there, beneath his collarbone.

Slanting across his right thigh were two more scars - two more long-healed bullet wounds. In the bend of his right elbow was a fourth, and a fifth grazing over his left hipbone. But he wasn't the same man anymore as the one who had stared down a row of rifles, had watched fifty men whom he had considered his comrades and his friends become the last casualties of an old régime. He remembered their names and their faces, but only in the way he might have remembered particularly vivid characters from a book.

He had been one man then and he was another now, and he didn't regret that. There was no place for regret.

At first, it hadn't been easy. The truth was, Sagara should have died as well, on that night nine years ago when the Sekihoutai had been betrayed, but somewhere between luck and tenacity he had been spared. A shinobi - young, barely more than a boy, but already leader of the Oniwaban Ninja - had dragged him out of snowy woods where the slaughter had taken place. He had tended to Sagara's wounds, hidden him, protected him, seen that he was cared for until he could walk again.

Many times, Sagara thought he had forgotten the name of the young man. He had been a ghost, an enigma, the type of person who was named only to have that name forgotten. But Sagara would never be able to forget him…

Shinomori Aoshi.

In the months that had followed the fall of the Sekihoutai, Sagara had been searching. He hadn't been quite certain for what, but the desire had been urgent all the same. Ultimately, need and aimlessness had proved to be a volatile combination. Sagara had felt a vague and compulsory need, a tug in the pit of his stomach. It had been an aching that was different from grief and regret, as if there was a hollow place left behind by his betrayed ideals and his dead comrades. Just missing them wasn't enough; there had to be something to fill the gap.

And Aoshi had been there.

The five years' difference between them had seemed significant. Aoshi was little more than a child, and Sagara had never intended to allow himself to be so completely captivated by him. But one morning after his wounds had healed, Sagara had awakened to find he was not alone in his bed.

In his sleep, Aoshi would curl against him, hide his face in Sagara's shoulder. He would snore softly, and sometimes mutter a few unintelligible words. All the demons inside at rest…

It had given him foolish hope, but everything Sagara had ever hoped for had been revealed as equally foolish, so he hadn't minded. Perhaps, back then, Aoshi was searching for something, too.

But in three months, Aoshi had never spoken to him. Not really. He had tolerated Sagara's teasing, and Sagara his pride. But the arrangement had been that they not say anything of where they had been or where they were going. The understanding had been that, one day, Aoshi would drift out of his life with the same carelessness that he had drifted in.

In the end, Sagara had surprised them both by being the one who pulled away. He had dedicated himself so completely to the unlikely peace they cultivated within each other that he had forgotten Aoshi's loyalty was first and unconditionally to the Oniwaban. And when the man had reached with bloodstained hands to touch him… Sagara had pulled away.

He had left the Aoi-Ya that night. The past - all his shame - had caught up to him and he had fled, returned here to this pillar of a life he had once wanted only to escape. Here, the past lingered only on the fringes of his perception, a distant sound or a flash of something bright out of the corner of his eye. He had buried it in the smell of earth and the burn of hard work.

And on evening's like this, when his thoughts strayed uncomfortably close to the ugly memories of things that had happened away from his home, Sagara needed only glance up long enough to remind himself of where he was - remind himself that he was content - and his restlessness would be placated.

Sagara wiped a few beads of sweat from his eyes as he turned his gaze up from the small patch of _daikon_ to trace the decline of the setting sun.

It was only by chance that he noticed the shadow of movement on the road bordering the western edge of his field. Everything slanted down in that direction, and, framed by the sun, he could see clearly from this garden everyone who passed.

But he usually didn't bother to look.

If it hadn't been for his quietly wandering mind tonight, he probably wouldn't have raised his eyes at that moment, wouldn't have noticed the dark cutout of a person stumble and collapse.

Sagara's expression tightened, and he was still a moment, watching the place where the figure had disappeared. Whoever it was… he wasn't getting up. Slowly, with his eyes still fixed on the spot where the man had slid to the ground and out of sight, Sagara rose and shrugged his coarse shirt on.

As he dew closer to the road, dodging amongst rows of vegetables, he could smell something metallic in the air. He recognized it immediately as blood. Sagara's breath hitched in his chest, and he quickened his pace.

The stranger wore indigo, and a white coat streaked in crimson. He had landed on his stomach when he fell, but there was a ring of displaced dust around him from struggling to get his feet under himself once more. As Sagara approached, he lay very still.

"Oh, God…" Sagara murmured as he knelt at the man's side. All this blood… his eyes snapped to the three bullet holes in the man's coat. It hadn't been an accident. One hand moved uncertainly down the stranger's back. "Can you hear me? Don't try to move. I'm going to help you…"

"Just get me on my feet. I don't want your help."

At the sound of that voice, Sagara froze. All the years leading up to this moment flashed before him, and with a sharp gasp Sagara's hand tightened around the back of a white coat, turning the man onto his back.

The ground seemed to drop out from under him, leaving him with a long way to fall. His voice was breathless, dry. The cruel hiss of a blow to the chest, driving all the air from his lungs. The name had been on his lips all this time, only looking for an excuse to be free.

"Aoshi?"


	2. Chapter 1

**Witness Tree ~ Chapter 1**

It felt like days had passed, but Aoshi knew that surely it couldn't have been more than a few hours. Or perhaps that was too optimistic. All this blood wasn't his, but as Hannya's dried in a comet tail arc across his chest, it was starting to become easier to determine how much was.

Somehow, he was still on his feet. Escaping Takeda's compound hadn't been the hard part. He had been riding a warm red fog of adrenaline and he had felt no pain as he had slipped out a window and into the safety of Tokyo's back alleys. His only discomfort had been the heaviness of his boots as they slowly filled with blood. Now, however, his body's last reserves were depleted, and the bright clear vision that suggested he was in shock had begun to fade.

He had thought he was escaping, but he knew now that he had only come out here to die. His legs were about to collapse beneath him, but Aoshi hardly cared. For now, he was still moving, and as long he kept moving he didn't have any strength left over to scream. If he started screaming, he knew, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Dusk bled down richer red than he had ever seen before - or was that only the final curtain falling over his eyes? - and somewhere off to the east he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of something bright. A field. The dark silhouette of a house against the graying sky. His lips parted around a word. Not the one he had expected.

"Please…"

Aoshi's knees buckled, dumping him to the ground. He yelped sharply as a jolt of pain shot up his left leg. He had honestly not expected it to hurt, and he lay shuddering in surprised for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around it. It was hard to piece his thoughts together, especially with that voice whispering in the back of his mind. Just the same thing, over and over.

_I cannot die this way._

Whimpering softly in frustration, Aoshi tried to force himself to his feet. Darkness washed over him, wet and sticky like tar, and though he lost only a few moments to it, the next thing he was aware of was a gentle hand on his back, and a voice murmuring soft, confused words in his ear. They came as a great comfort to Aoshi, even if he couldn't make them out through the thundering of blood at his temples. Couldn't make out what he said in response, either.

It wasn't until he felt a hand close around his shoulder, turning him onto his back and drawing a voiceless cry from his throat that the world rushed back to him, struck him between the eyes like a fist.

He heard his name spoken, very clearly, and for a moment deep gray eyes flashed before him in perfect clarity. Aoshi's lips parted to speak, the reply never made it to his lips.

With an insensate murmur, he went limp in Sagara's arms.

For a long moment, Sagara could do nothing but stare down at him. Aoshi wore the same calm expression he always had - the one Sagara dreamed about sometimes - though his skin was pale as milk, his lips pressed tight. Like a mask of his old lover, a death's head hollowed of everything that had been Shinomori Aoshi.

And it was then that Sagara realized his lungs were aching, that he had forgotten to breathe. Gasping, he stumbled to his feet, catching Aoshi under the shoulders and dragging him along. "You don't want my help…" he muttered as he pulled one of Aoshi's arms over his shoulders.

Aoshi's eyes were nearly closed; nothing but whites visible beneath fluttering lids. Sagara doubted he could hear him, but he was talking anyway, his voice thin and wavering as he wrapped an arm around Aoshi's waist and began to lead him up the slope to his small farmhouse.

"Don't be so stubborn. You don't have a choice." He stumbled a little, drawing a sharp cry from the man at his side. Sagara bit his lip, and blinked against tears. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Aoshi didn't reply, and maybe that was good. Maybe by now he was far away, somewhere pain couldn't touch him. "Walk," Sagara said. "Please."

Though he still did not respond, Aoshi seemed to understand, at least long enough for Sagara to tug him up the steps onto the porch of the farmhouse. He toed the door open, dragged Aoshi inside, and managed to kick a _futon_ onto the floor without jarring him too much.

As he lowered him to the mattress, Aoshi's eyes fluttered open, fixing Sagara with a penetrating stare. Almost as suddenly, his gaze slipped out of focus again, and he held a trembling hand over one of the steaming wounds in his left leg. He swore softly.

Swallowing hard, Sagara sank slowly to his knees at Aoshi's side, brushed a few locks of black bloodstained hair out of his eyes.

"Aoshi… Listen to me, Aoshi," he murmured, moving his attention lower to the man's injured legs. It looked bad. "You're going to be all right," he assured him. "I'll make sure you are."

He stood up again, and moved briskly about the house, gathering the things he would need to tend to Aoshi's wounds.

Aoshi's voice followed him as he grabbed the basin of water and all the clean cloths he had from the other room. "Sagara…?" He paused, gathering his strength. "Sagara Souzou? It's you, isn't it?"

Sagara's hands stumbled briefly over the tools he was collecting. "Yes," he said quietly, forcing his fingers to stop trembling. "It's me." He sank again to his knees at Aoshi's side, took up a short knife and began to carefully cut away Aoshi's stained clothing. "And you don't have to worry. I'm going to take care of you."

"I…" Aoshi gritted his teeth, but still a pained intake of breath escaped them as Sagara's hand drifted close to one of the bullet wounds. "I knew it would be you. I knew… You're a ghost. Just like they are."

Sagara managed to keep himself from flinching, but he couldn't look at Aoshi's face. "Not quite." He shredded the last of the fabric in his way, and tossed the torn remains of Aoshi's coat and _gi_ aside. "The closest doctor is half a day from here, but… if I can stop the bleeding you'll have a chance."

He selected a strong needle, threaded it with his teeth and bent over Aoshi's wounds once more.

Aoshi's eyes widened when he saw the needle and then he abruptly looked away. Sagara bit his lip. This wouldn't be pretty, but his hands were steady as he began.

* * *

Half an hour later, Aoshi was shivering, drenched in sweat, retching dryly. But Sagara had cut the last thread and he could finally afford to shiver a little as he wrapped clean bandages around Aoshi's legs. "Be still," he whispered absently, touching Aoshi's cheek with fingers that must have been cold. "I'm almost done now."

Aoshi's eyes fluttered a little. He was losing consciousness. If he slept now, Sagara realized, he might not wake up. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing, except hope…

"Sagara…"

He started a little at the sound of his name. "Don't try to talk. You must have hurt your throat with all that screaming."

Aoshi nodded weakly. "Hurts." He turned his face into Sagara's palm. "Sagara, you're really…"

"Old?" Sagara whispered, trying to force some humor into his voice. "Yes, I know." He tied off the bandages, and reached down to tug a sheet over Aoshi's body.

"That's not..." Aoshi's voice became serious suddenly, and his eyes were cloudy and dark. "You're really here. I never thought... Not like this."

Sagara sighed. "Yes. I'm still here. Right where you left me. But… look at you. All grown up now." He smoothed the blanket over Aoshi's chest, and leaned back to survey his work. "There, it's done. How do you feel?"

"Dead," came the hissed reply. "Sagara, it shouldn't have been you. You shouldn't have to…" He swallowed hard, lucidity flickering out of his eyes like a candle before a stiff breeze. "I'm so tired."

"Then rest," Sagara whispered, sinking back a bit on his knees. He pressed his hands against the floor as if to assure himself that it was still there. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep… I guess we'll have some catching up to do when you're awake."

"Sagara, I…" For a moment, Aoshi seemed to be grasping for something. His lips even continued to move for a moment after his voice had stopped working. It didn't occur to Sagara until a moment too late that if these were to be Aoshi's last words, perhaps he could at least do him the courtesy of hearing them. But by then the man had fallen still, his breath, like quiet sobs, becoming even as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Sagara watched him a moment, transfixed by the movement of Aoshi's chest beneath the thin blanket. This was real. This was not a ghost, not a phantom spun of this time of the day, of the year, and all the memories it had.

It wasn't until he tasted the first of his tears on his lips that Sagara started awake. Ashamed, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Tears were for the dead. "Oh, Aoshi…" he whispered. "You have to wake up. Just one more time."


	3. Chapter 2

**Witness Tree ~ Chapter 2**

As Aoshi came slowly out of unconsciousness, there was a part of him that wanted to lie very still and never wake up, and maybe that part was his self-preservation. He couldn't feel the ache of his wounds now, but he knew they were there, poorly concealed beneath a blanket of painkillers.

His eyelids were heavy. They felt fused together, as if he had spent half a lifetime asleep; his throat was too dry to manage even a quiet groan, but he lifted a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose until his vision faded back into focus. Darkness still hung around the periphery of his sight. If he tried to turn his head toward those shadows, he knew they would dart away again, laughing at him dryly, dustily. Like laughter from the mouths of the dead.

Aoshi bit his lip. It felt like he had been taken apart and put back together again. Too hastily, and with pieces missing or out of place. As if there was a trail of cogs and gears stretched behind him on the road from the capital.

Somewhere to his left there were footsteps on the _tatami_. He hadn't heard them at first; they were quiet, unobtrusive like footsteps in a hospital or a temple. He reached for his _kodachi_. The blade was stretched like a faithful dog beside the bed, and Aoshi drew it close. Even though he was in poor shape for a fight, it was a comfort to find the weapon near. "Who's there?"

The footsteps stopped, hesitated, drew near to his bedside. Turning to face them seemed a bit too much to ask right now, but Aoshi shifted his grip on his sword.

"Oh…" said an unfamiliar voice that made Aoshi's heart pound in his throat. The man hesitated at his bedside, seemed to want to kneel beside him, but in the end he didn't. "Good morning."

He sighed quietly when Aoshi didn't reply. "Well, my name's Etsuya, Akinari Etsuya. I'm… a friend of Sagara's. And you really shouldn't try to move. You've been unconscious for four days; we were starting to think you weren't going to wake up."

Aoshi's eyes narrowed in defiance, but he relaxed his grip on his sword. His shoulders popped stiffly as he lifted himself on his hands and set the blade aside. He glanced at Etsuya, daring him to protest, but by then the man had already turned away. His hair hung like a black ribbon to the small of his back, tied between his shoulder blades with a length of worn leather

Aoshi's eyes narrowed at that turned back. "Where is he?" he asked. "Sagara, I mean."

It wasn't that he wanted to see him; he just wanted to know how much time he had to think of a way to explain.

"Asleep." Etsuya glanced back again, and his eyes softened a little. "He's been watching over you, you know. So try not to hurt yourself again. He'll only worry more."

"I'm fine." But the thought of Sagara worrying about him seemed to weigh heavily on him, and Aoshi lowered himself back to the mattress.

"I'm fine…" he repeated softly.

"You're not fine," Etsuya said. "But you are very lucky to be alive. Do you suppose you can eat something? I think you should try."

"Lucky…" Aoshi muttered vaguely. He passed a hand over his left thigh, welcoming the pain.

Etsuya sighed. "It's a shame that you don't think so. If Souzou hadn't found you when he had…" He shook his head a little as he knelt at Aoshi's side, offering a bowl of _miso_, stone cold. A few strands of loose hair shifted over his shoulders. "Come on; eat something. You need it."

Aoshi's scrutinized his face. He didn't like this man, though he had no real reason, save that Etsuya was simple and honest, and that was exactly the type of person he'd never gotten along with before. There was something about the way Etsuya spoke and moved. The way his eyes drifted subtly to the room with the screen drawn in front of it, where Sagara must have been.

It was all far too familiar. He was living here.

Aoshi looked away as he accepted the bowl. Sagara wasn't alone here. Good. That… was good. "How much did he tell you?"

"About you, you mean?" Only when he was certain Aoshi was eating did Etsuya push to his feet again. "No much. He said I should be careful what I say around you."

"Good advice," Aoshi said, just to see what Etsuya would do. "You don't know what I might do."

"No," Etsuya admitted. "I don't. But you're here, now, and you're not going anywhere. Besides, it's important to Souzou."

There was something about the way Etsuya said that name that made Aoshi lose all the will he had to bait the man. "I should have guessed as much. That's just like him."

"I suppose so," Etsuya said. "And there's nothing either of us could do to change his mind. That's just like him, too." He swept his hair back with one hand. "I have to go. Try to get some rest, all right?"

Aoshi watched Etsuya closely until he had gone, letting his breath out in a shuddering sigh when it seemed he was alone once more. Alone. That word had never meant what it did right now. He felt like a rumor set adrift in a world of hard facts. What was his purpose anymore?

His breath caught sharply in his throat and he braced his body against a sudden wave of tremors. And he was still a while in the dim light of a room shuttered against the day, waiting for unconsciousness to catch up to him.

And he would have been fine, would have somehow found a way to pull himself back together, to keep himself in one piece. Another few months, a year at the most was all he would have needed. He would have been able to go through with it all, if, at that moment, he hadn't heard soft footfalls entering from the other room.

Maybe it was just the pain thinking for him, but he swore he recognized the rhythm of those steps. Though maybe they were a little heavier now than what he remembered, they were the same. And the way Sagara sighed when he knelt beside Aoshi's mattress was wearier than what he had once been accustomed to, but it was familiar as well.

Aoshi closed his eyes, though he knew it was no good pretending to be asleep. Sagara had always seen right through him. He could have counted the heartbeats until a hand came down on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring.

"Are you all right?" Sagara said quietly. "Does it hurt a lot?"

Aoshi opened his eyes, but not to look at the man. He couldn't do that quite yet. "I'm fine. It doesn't hurt." It did, though; it hurt like hell. They both knew it, but Sagara let it go.

"All right." Sagara withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry I wasn't awake to check on you earlier. You look different when you're asleep, you know? Well, no, I guess you wouldn't know what you look like when you're asleep. But it's more peaceful. Almost innocent. I think that's always been the part of you I liked best…"

"Sagara." Aoshi said the name so abruptly that he startled them both a little. The man turned to him and their gazes met. For a moment, Aoshi was sure that Sagara hadn't changed at all since they had parted. But it was a mirage. His eyes were still gray, but his hair had begun to silver a little at the temples. The laugh lines around his mouth were the same, but the creases in the corners of his eyes were new.

"Was I babbling?" Sagara said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"No." Aoshi shook his head. "I mean, it's all right that you were. I met your friend. Akinari."

"Oh?" If Sagara felt anything at those words it was impossible to tell from his voice what it might have been. "He's gone now, isn't he?"

Aoshi sighed, glancing away.

"I see." Sagara bit his lip. "You've had a rough time, haven't you? You can tell me what happened if you want. I can help you, Aoshi…"

Aoshi knew that he could not. Even if maybe Sagara came closest to being able to understand, Aoshi needed only to look around this home, think of the way his name had sounded in Etsuya's voice to know that it wasn't nearly close enough.

"There's someone running around Tokyo with your name," he said, just to have something else to talk about. "Sagara Sanosuke."

"Sanosuke?" A faint smile crawled over Sagara's lips. "I always thought, just maybe he'd still be around. Is he… I mean, it wasn't him that…?" He gestured vaguely toward Aoshi's legs. "Was it?"

"No. Nothing like that," Aoshi assured. "He's rather short-tempered, but he's not lacking in good intentions. Maybe not the brightest boy I've ever met…"

"Now I know we're talking about the same person." Sagara laughed. "Sagara Sanosuke…" he said, and then he nodded to himself. "Thank you, Aoshi."

When he didn't answer right away, Sagara reached out to set his hand against Aoshi's shoulder. "This is kind of familiar, don't you think? Maybe now we're even."

"Not quite."

"No…" Sagara's hand fell away. "I guess not. Because you aren't staying, are you?"

And for some reason, Aoshi felt his throat tighten at those words. If all these years hadn't changed the way Sagara affected him sometimes, he doubted anything ever could. The man was hidden depths he couldn't even imagine. "Everything's… different now," he said quietly. "I'm not the same person you knew."

"That's not what I meant. It's natural… that you've changed." Sagara seemed to struggle with the word. It made him nervous. How strange, Aoshi mused, that this man had once been ready to give his life to change a country but when change was this close to home, was this small and ungrandiose and lacking in meaning, he shied away from it.

"We've all changed," Sagara said. "So much. Sometimes I wonder who I am really, and who Sagara Souzou is, and how we've come to live in the same skin." He lowered his eyes. "But that doesn't mean I don't…"

"I know. I know, it's just…" Aoshi hesitated, unwilling to speak the words that he knew now had to be said. "Maybe we're the same now. All those years ago… I think I finally know what it must have felt like to lose everything."

"Aoshi…?" Sagara lifted one hand, as though looking for a way to comfort him.

"They're dead. All of them." Aoshi swallowed hard; his voice tasted like the blood that had dried on his lips and in the corners of his mouth.

Sagara's lips parted in search of something to say. "Misao?" The name was the first thing he remembered, and he clung to it like a drowning man.

"Misao…?" Aoshi echoed, and he had to look away for a moment. "No. She's in Kyoto. Safe in Kyoto. I don't want her to know about this. There's only one thing left for me now."

"Maybe you haven't changed as much as I thought." Sagara sounded disappointed, but he didn't take his hand from Aoshi's shoulder. "I've been where you are, you know. There's no honor in it. Dying a wasted death. You don't want to believe me, but I know it's true."

"Maybe you haven't changed that much, either," Aoshi muttered. Still an arrogant, self-righteous, naïve little fool. If only that wasn't the very reason Aoshi had loved him in the first place…

"Shh." Sagara's expression softened, and he shifted his grip on Aoshi's shoulder, holding him still. "Don't move around to much. You'll tear open your wounds and ruin all my hard work. I'd never done anything like what I did on your legs, you know. But I'd seen things like it plenty of times. Pretty good for my first try, don't you think?"

Aoshi struggled a little, but in the end he let Sagara hold him still. "It's a miracle you didn't kill me," he murmured.

"I take my miracles where I can get them these days." He waited until Aoshi was still before releasing him again. "Don't you?"

"I don't believe in them."

"Oh," Sagara said, as though he had known all along that would be Aoshi's answer. "Well, maybe it's not a miracle, but I'm still glad you're here. That I got to see you again."

"Sagara…" Aoshi reached up, catching him around the wrist and pulling Sagara's hand down to his chest. "I can't die here. There's still something I have to do. So…" He shivered. "I can't die here."

"I know. There always is." He touched Aoshi's cheek lightly with his free hand. "You're not going to die. Not if you don't want to. You know I won't let it happen." He pulled gently away, and stood. "But you are going to be in pain for a while. And you're going to have to regain your strength. So just stay put for now, all right?"

"All right." Aoshi sighed. He had no choice but to deliver himself into Sagara's care for the time being. Maybe his humiliation didn't even matter, now that he'd lost everything except for this man. Or just the memories of this man. With a breathless sigh, he turned away. "Sagara, would you…?" He couldn't face him right now, but he couldn't ask him to leave either.

But, as always, Sagara seemed to understand. "Sure. You need to rest, don't you? You must be tired."

"Yes," Aoshi said dully. "Tired."

"Okay." He heard Sagara step back once, then again. "Get some sleep. I'll try to stay around the house today; just call if you need anything."

"I'll be fine," Aoshi whispered, and he closed his eyes as though he really intended to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3

**Witness Tree ~ Chapter 3**

Sagara didn't glance up as Etsuya stepped out onto the porch beside him, pulling the door closed quietly behind himself.

"How's Aoshi?" Sagara asked. His voice was tired, little more than a rasp.

"How are _you_?" Etsuya shook his head slightly when Sagara didn't answer right away. "He's fine. Sleeping."

"I'm tired." Sagara reached up, offering his hand. "But I'm all right."

Etsuya glanced back toward the house as though he still expected Aoshi to be able to overhear them. "Who is he?" he asked quietly, taking Sagara's hand.

Sagara sighed, leaning against the porch railing. One leg was bent up, crooked close to his chest; the other trailed over the edge of the porch so the grass bowed beneath his bare foot. "No one," he murmured without looking up. "No one at all."

"Souzou…" Etsuya knelt, fingers closing around Sagara's shoulder to turn him back. Gray eyes flickered wider, and Sagara lifted a hand to rest over Etsuya's wrist.

"Someone I used to know," he said quietly. "A long time ago."

"I see." Etsuya sighed, and pulled his hand back. "I know you don't like me to ask about the past. So I won't." He began to climb to his feet. "Come back inside soon, okay?"

Sagara glanced after him, startled. "Etsuya?" He lifted a hand, not quite enough to touch him. Not enough to pull him back.

"It's all right."

"That's… all you ever say." Sagara climbed to his feet, circling around so he stood with his back to the door, as though to bar Etsuya from leaving. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"I know." Etsuya sighed quietly, and his fingertips skated over the side of Sagara's face, lifting the hair from his eyes. "And that's all you ever say. So we must belong together, right?"

"I'm sorry." Sagara glanced away, but couldn't bring himself to pull back from that gentle touch. "If you want…"

Already, Etsuya was shaking his head. "I don't want to know. It wouldn't accomplish anything." His hand drifted downward, ghosting over the scar on Sagara's shoulder. He kissed it sometimes as they lay in bed, kissed all his scars as though desperate to prove he could accept every part of him, even the pieces that were missing. But perhaps Sagara wasn't the only one he was trying to convince. "It would only hurt you, wouldn't it?"

"That's not…" His hand fell over Etsuya's, pinning it in place, and he pulled closer. He couldn't meet his gaze right now; it would be like looking into the eyes of a stranger. "Why do you pretend it doesn't matter?"

"Because it doesn't matter." His arms wrapped around Sagara's shoulders, drawing him in. "I'm in love with you, Souzou. Not the man you used to be."

"I love you, too," Sagara muttered into thick black hair. He shifted a little on his feet, though not to pull away. This conversation was old by now, and battered around the edges. He had never lied to Etsuya, hadn't even changed his name after returning to this Tokyo. But he couldn't bring himself to confess everything, either. That life he had once lived had been so foolish and futile, so shameful and bloody… It had no place here.

"Good," Etsuya said. "Then that's good enough." He leaned back on his heels, drawing one hand around from the small of Sagara's back, resting his palm in the center of his chest. "You know, it's been kind of hard, having to stay quiet these last few nights." He tugged at the hem of Sagara's shirt. "Don't you think?"

"I suppose…" A smile tugged at the corners of Sagara's lips, and his hand fell over Etsuya's guiding it beneath his shirt. "Maybe a little."

He was drawn forward, and he tilted his head back to meet Etsuya in a kiss. In that instant, he remembered the first time they had met. If had been the end of spring, and the last of the sakura were dying like moths on the trees. There had been a wilted pink petal caught in a lock of hair framing Etsuya's face, and idly Sagara had reached up to pluck it out.

Even then he had known, somehow, that they would end up here. He had always known that it would be someone like this he would find at his side…

"We should do something about that, don't you think?" Etsuya grinned slyly.

"Aoshi's right inside. I don't want him to hear."

Etsuya eased him back a step, so Sagara's back was pressed against the railing. "He won't."

"No?" Sagara's breath caught, his skin growing tight beneath Etsuya's hands. Years of hard work had worn his palms rough, and they felt best on the sensitive places at the side of Sagara's throat and just beneath his navel.

"Not as long as you bite your tongue," Etsuya said, and sank to his knees.

* * *

Aoshi didn't know how long he had been asleep, but it was the sound of life returning to the farmhouse that awakened him. He lifted himself on his arms, looking up in time to meet Sagara's eyes. He looked better than he had that morning; the tense lines had melted from around the corners of his mouth, and the shadows had faded from beneath his eyes.

But if he felt any relief, it was gone a moment later when Etsuya slipped inside a step behind Sagara, leaning down to feather lips over his temple.

Aoshi narrowed his eyes and turned away.

"Please…" he heard Sagara murmur, and then he listened to the sounds of footsteps withdrawing into the other room, a panel pulled shut, followed by a murmur of fabric as Sagara knelt beside him.

"It's not fair, you know," Aoshi said, just to have something to break the silence.

Sagara sighed. "That's not like you, Aoshi."

"All this time," he continued, as though having not heard. "I thought you were going to be one who would have to change. I thought that you would have to change, or you would die, and those were your only options."

"There's no need for this now," Sagara said softly.

Aoshi shook his head. "But you're the same as you always were, and I thought I had everything figured out. So why am I the one who has to make that choice…?"

"Because, Aoshi, it's _not_ fair." Sagara reached down, smoothing some of the hair out of Aoshi's eyes. "Because nothing's ever fair."

"I wish it hadn't been you that found me. I would rather have died…"

Sagara frowned. "That's not very flattering."

Aoshi sighed; before he could think better of it, he was saying, "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I only meant… I can't thank you for what you've done. Because it's all been a waste."

"You know I won't let you get away with talking like that, Aoshi." Sagara smiled weakly. "So just try to relax, all right? Please. There's nothing you can do until you get better, and… it's only me. You know me, Aoshi. You know I'll take care of you until then."

It was humiliating how true those words were. "I know," Aoshi murmured. "I understand."

He reached out, hand slipping across the _tatami_ to curl around Sagara's. Maybe things like shame didn't matter anymore, now that he'd lost everything except for this man. Or just the memories of this man. Aoshi's eyes narrowed as his gaze slipped to the place Etsuya had disappeared.

"Who is he?" Aoshi said. It shouldn't have mattered. He shouldn't have asked.

Sagara's gaze lowered, to hide, perhaps, the hint of a blush. "A friend. He's been living here," he said. "For nearly three years now."

"Three years…" Aoshi sighed, and shut his eyes. He wasn't really surprised that he couldn't imagine himself in a place like this, but he wasn't comforted, either. "I guess this is what you meant. The kind of life you wanted to live, right?"

"It's hard to really think about it that way," Sagara said. "Like you said, I could either change, or die. And so I made my decision." He smiled. "I wasn't quite ready for death."

So, Sagara really had changed. The man he had known ten years ago would never have said something like that. "What about your battle?" he asked. "Weren't you going to fix everything that was broken? Weren't you going to make things better?"

"I don't know if you're trying to make fun of me or if you're really asking," Sagara said. "But look around, Aoshi. I own this place, you know, this land. It's mine. I could live out the rest of my days here, and not have to worry about answering to a _daimyo_, about having to pay taxes in a bad year. Isn't that… better?"

"Better…" Aoshi echoed. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"When I came back here, my brother almost didn't recognize me, you know. I don't really blame him, I was supposed to be dead." His hand moved thoughtfully along the edge of the blankets. "You never told me that they put my head on display in the street, Aoshi."

He glanced down, watching the careful movements of Sagara's fingers. "I thought it would be more prudent not to."

"I wonder who it was…?"

"What?"

"Who they mistook for me. Who… had to suffer because I couldn't even have the good sense to die after five bullets." He laughed, bitterly.

"Sagara…"

"I know," he said, too sharply, a ripple of buried emotion surfacing in the words. "It's all in the past. I know."

"Tell me about your family," Aoshi said, just for the sake of having something to say.

Sagara shrugged. "There's not much to tell. They were good people. I was their youngest, and my parents were already old by the time I was born. They were disappointed in me when I left, but I told them I'd make up for it by bringing them honor. I…" He shivered faintly, as a blade of grass touched by the breeze. "I was just a boy back then."

A handsome boy at that. One who could, on certain days in autumn, before the weather turned cold be coaxed by one of the working men who had been hired to help with the harvest back into the fields behind the house. He had learned a lot in those days, things that he hadn't had the good judgment to be ashamed of at the time.

But Sagara did not say that part out loud. Aoshi didn't need to know everything, after all. The same as Etsuya didn't.

"My parents died," Sagara continued, "while I was away in Kyoto. I never knew until I came home. The land had passed to my older brother, Ayako, but he didn't have the skill to manage it, not like our father did."

He glanced down at Aoshi. The younger man wasn't looking at him, but he still seemed to be listening, so Sagara went on. "He… wasn't pleased to see me. 'We already held your funeral, Souzou.' That was what he said. 'After we heard what had happened at Shimosuwa.' And…" Sagara shook his head. "And I knew he was right, but I didn't have any other home to go to."

He sighed. "When I think about it now, I realize it was the wrong thing to do. Ayako's always known there's something different about me. He was married by then. They had kids. He didn't want me around queering the place up."

Sagara laughed at that, a sudden nervous sound that caught Aoshi's attention. He turned, and their eyes met for a moment. "Sorry," Sagara muttered, lowering his gaze.

"It's all right, "Aoshi said. His voice was pitched low, and there was something in it that Sagara could have mistaken for gentleness. Could have, if he hadn't known better. "Go on."

"There's not much else to tell. Ayako didn't want the farm, so he sold off most of the acreage and bought a place in the city. He makes masks now. They're good; at least… that's what people say."

"You have not seen him since then," Aoshi surmised.

"No." Sagara's voice had dropped low, almost to a whisper. "He gave me the house and the garden… a little bit of land out back. He said I was dangerous, and, it was nothing personal, but he never wanted to see me again. He was a good brother. It was fair of him."

"Sagara," Aoshi said quietly. "You don't have to say that for his sake."

"What else was he supposed to do, Aoshi?" Sagara's eyes narrowed. "He was right; I am dangerous. If anyone were to find out I'm still alive… If they were to find out he had hidden me…"

Abruptly, he seemed to relax again. "Besides it was only hard for a little while."

"And then you met your friend."

"Etsuya," Sagara said. "Yes. Then I met him. And then… he told me he loved me. And then everything was all right."

Aoshi sighed, and once again he looked away, stared up at the ceiling. "You make it sound simple."

"It is, in a way." Sagara shook his head. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear that right now, I know. Would you like to sleep some more?"

"Yes," Aoshi sighed, glancing away. "I just want to sleep."

Sagara hesitated a moment, and then bent over him. It seemed to Aoshi that he was going to dust a kiss over his forehead – a chaste, innocent kiss – but then Sagara's lips met his own. It was an awkward kiss, a false start, but that wasn't what surprised him the most.

It was a comfort to Aoshi, to know that he could still be surprised.

"Sleep well," Sagara whispered, pushing to his feet.

And then he was gone, leaving Aoshi with only the lingering warmth of his lips, the feel of his kiss drying in a brand on his lips.


End file.
